


My Seventeenth Birthday

by ameh



Category: No Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:50:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameh/pseuds/ameh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the true story about my rape.  All the names have been changed because like fuck I'm going to put that information out there.  I just figure maybe this will help someone else, somehow, just.. don't trust people like I did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Seventeenth Birthday

          It's a slightly chilly morning in the last week of October. Today is my birthday, and there's no one else at my house; my brother and my dad are at work, my little sister's at school, and my stupid boyfriend, Dylan, is probably passed out in a pill-induced coma at his house. So I'm home with my dogs, trying to move a 200lb dresser by myself so I can reorganize my bedroom. Such is life.  
          Oh, I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Amethyst, and today is my 17th birthday. I have shoulder length auburn hair, green eyes, and I'm actually rather skinny. It's surprising to me, because I've always been on the heavier side. I'm not used to being so small that I have to steal my 13 year old sister's clothes just to have something that fits me. Blame it on the drugs I got into lately, I guess.  
          I've been dating Dylan for about 8 months now. We actually look really stupid together; a short 5'1" girl standing next to a 6'3" lanky doofus just doesn't look like it matches up too well. In the past 8 months, I've been introduced to crystal meth, which Dylan and I do together regularly. He gets mean sometimes. I've been hit, thrown through doors, locked in bedrooms, threatened with a gun to my head, and so on. I'm not exactly happy, but it's easier to stay with him at this point.  
          There's a knock at my bedroom door before it swings open, and George pops his head in to see what I'm doing. This isn't uncommon, nor does it surprise me at all; George comes over here often, damn near everyday. I hear him start chuckling at the sight of some small 100lb girl struggling to tilt a 200lb wooden dresser back and forth in an attempt to walk it towards the wall, and I huff in annoyance at his obvious amusement.  
          Here's the deal with George, okay. George married Dylan's mom, so he's my boyfriend's step-dad. He's in his mid-40's, and he's a really cool guy. We get along super well; we sit in the shop and build things, we listen to the same music, we have similar senses of humour, and I just generally enjoy his company. He's easier to be around than Dylan, I've noticed. He's more laid back about everything. Plus, my dad raised me by himself, I grew up with that older male presence and picked up personality traits from it, so I think I just get along better with people's dads. I don't really think anything of it. It's never been anything weird.  
          "What the hell are you doing," he asks between laughs before rushing over to grab the dresser that I just tilted back too far and almost got crushed under.  
          "Oh fuck, that almost sucked, thank you. I hate that stupid thing."  
          He moves it the rest of the way to the wall with ease, that show off, as I sit down on my couch and light a cigarette.  
          "Smoke break," I say and offer him a smoke when he sits down beside me after taking off his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch beside him. He nods, making his sunglasses shift a little bit from their resting place ontop of the dirty red bandana he has tied around his faded blonde hair. His hands are dirty with grease and dust from working in the shop all morning, I noticewhen he slips a Marlboro out of the pack I'm holding open towards him.  
          After offering him a lighter, we lean back and get comfortable on my stupid blue loveseat couch thing. It might not be a loveseat. I don't know. It has two cushions. I move back into the corner of it, my back resting against the right arm and the back cushion of the couch, and pull my legs up so my knees are against my chest. George has his arm resting on the left arm of the couch. His body is facing forward, feet flat on the ground infront of him. The way I'm sitting has me angled to face him slightly. He looks over at me with dull blue eyes.  
          "So why did you think you could move that by yourself?" Smoke escapes the smile on his face with a light exhale, his mouth still forming a smile from his giggling fit moments ago.  
          "It has to get done, man! No one else will help, so I'll do the shit myself." I'm one of those animated speakers, and this makes him chuckle again.  
          "You could've called me to help you."  
          "With what phone?"  
          "..Damn, good point."  
          "Anyway, what are you doing out here?"  
          "Came out here to bring you this." He reaches into the pocket of his coat. Seconds later, a pint of vodka meets my eye. That son of a bitch knows me too well.  
          "Dude, are you serious?!" I fucking love vodka.  
          "Happy birthday," George smiles and passes the bottle to me.   
          I'm already halfway through the list of beverages we currently have in the house that can be used as a chaser when I notice him pulling a bottle of orange juice out of his other pocket. This is why we're friends; this man thinks of everything!  
          "Cheers?" He nods towards the bottle I just set down on the table infront of us, insinuating that I should drink.  
          "Oh, not right now, I gotta finish moving shit."  
          "Oh come on, you'll be fine!"  
          "I'll end up drinking the whole bottle!"  
          "Yeah right!" His voice is coated with disbelief. Is he trying to challenge me?  
          "No, seriously," my voice tries to sound convincing, but I'm pretty sure it's obvious that I'm now in competitive mode.  
          "I don't think you could even do that," he argues.  
          "Oh really now?" I sense a fucking challenge.  
          "Really."  
          "You know I can." He does know it, dammit. He knows I love alcohol - I'm a fucking alcoholic! I can't stop once I start. Has he really never seen this?  
          "Prove it." Yep, I was right - a fucking challenge.  
          "Fine."  
          My cigarette goes into the ashtray, and the bottles are in my hands within seconds. Both lids are off; the vodka pours into me before I chase it with orange juice. I know he's watching with that stupid grin on his face that doesn't believe I can do this, so I take another shot, followed quickly by one more. Three shots down. Do I look like I can't fucking do this?  
          The conversation turns into our normal bullshit - what Dylan's doing, how fucking stupid he is sometimes, what's going on out at their house, etc. The alcohol is taking effect, I can feel it. My voice is getting louder, I keep laughing, my hand gestures are becoming more and more animated. Every few minutes, George will say something that I take as a challenge again, and another shot will make its way into my body just to show him how badass I actually am.  
          Before I know it, I'm drunk. Like.. I'm really drunk. I can still walk, talk, move, all that good stuff, but it's very obvious that I am intoxicated. That's okay, though, because I know George isn't going to let me do anything too stupid. He's not going to let me choke on my own puke. He's got my back. He offers me the cigarette he just lit, and I take it while mumbling some sort of thanks. That's so nice of him to give me a smoke. He's nice. I like him being my friend. He's cool. High five. This is a good cigarette. I'm glad someone else smokes good cigarettes. Oh, fuck, it's hot, ow. Ew, maybe I should put it out. Ashtray! Hell yeah, totally put that cigarette out, who's the boss now?!  
          My sense of time is pretty warped at this point, but I'm sure it hasn't been more than a few moments since I put that cigarette out that he gave me. George is leaning closer to me, and I don't know why. Maybe he's not leaning closer; maybe I'm just drunk and leaning. No, that can't be it, my back is against the arm of the couch. What is he doing? That's kind of uncomfortable.  
          I shift my body on the couch, turning to face forwards and put my feet on the ground. George is sitting to my left, so I cross my left leg over my right once since it naturally shift my body to the right, away from him and his extreme personal space violation. I look over and notice him staring at me, his face less than a foot from mine.  
          "Uh?" That's all I can manage to get out right now. I don't know what he's doing. I need to move, this is weird.  
          Before I can actually look away, George is against me, his face pressed to mine. Is he kissing me? Is he actually fucking kissing me? What the fuck does he think he's doing?! I try to shake my head in protest, but he's already managed to move and establish his dominance by leaning over me. His left arm is across me, hand pressed against the arm of the couch beside me, the upper part of his body leaning over me. Did I do something to make him think this is okay? What the fuck is going on? My right arm is trapped beside the arm of the couch that he's holding onto, trapped under his arm, and I can't fucking get it free. I push against his chest with my left hand, trying to get him off me, trying to say no, but he's just too big for me to move. His right hand is tugging at my t-shirt, and I can feel his rough fingertips graze across my stomach. No. I'm getting dizzy. No no no. I try harder to push him away, but he grabs my hand and holds it down on the couch firmly. Just to make sure I won't do anything with my right arm, he moved his hand from the arm of the couch to my wrist, pinning it down, too. No. Fuck, my arms are useless. I try to pull my legs up to my chest, but he's leaning over me so much that the most I can do is try to push my knee into his shoulder. He doesn't even seem to notice.  
          He pulls back finally, but I'm still pinned. I can feel his lips against my neck, his stubble rubbing harshly across my skin; I can feel his grip tightening around my wrists; I can hear his low grunts escaping his throat; I can feel the helplessness settling into my stomach. I keep trying to move against his restraint, but it's just no use. Something in me decides maybe I can reason with him, as if the countless times I've said no since regaining the ability to speak weren't enough.  
          "Stop, you can't do this."  
          His lips make their way up to my ear, and I turn my face away in some attempt to defy him.  
          "Seriously, we can't.. this isn't okay."  
          He lets go of my right wrist and quickly replaces it with his elbow to keep my arm pinned between me and the arm of the couch. His hand reaches up and squeezes my chest. Another grunt comes from him.  
          "You're married!"  
          He bites the skin of my collarbone as he somehow manages to work his hand under my shirt without moving his elbow from where he pinned me. His hands are rough, along with his actions. My bra doesn't even slow him down. His fingers swiftly undo the clasp in the front of it, allowing his hand to freely squeeze my right breast. I whine as pain shoots through me.  
          "I'm dating your step-son!"  
          He gasps in response to the noise he forced from me, and a wave of disgust floods to my stomach. I can't believe this is fucking happening. His demeanor becomes more rushed, more erratic, more demanding - like he almost lost control. In one quick movement, he has both of my hands pinned to the back of the couch above my head, his left hand pressing hard into my wrists to keep me from being able to squirm free. He's halfway standing now, supporting his weight with his right knee on the couch and his left foot on the floor. His left leg is positioned between my legs to keep me from pulling them together and adding more resistance. Just enough of his weight is resting on my left leg ensure I can't move it, and his left knee is pushed against my right leg so it's pinned to the arm of the couch. He's all but ontop of me now, and I don't understand what's even happening.  
           "I'm fucking 17!"  
          He pulls my shirt up with his free hand, only wasting a moment to take in the sight below him. His mouth is on my skin again - kissing, sucking, biting, pulling - and all I can do is squirm underneath him in an attempt to move away. The sound of a zipper can be heard, and I don't want this at all.  
          "I don't want this.."  
          His hips are moving, I can feel it rocking the couch slightly. I feel his hand push it's way between my legs, touching me through me jeans as he tries to kiss me, but I turn away. Atleast I have that much freedom left. I don't want to see any of this, I don't want to open my eyes - I just want it to be over. There's no way I can get out of it. There's no way I can stop it. There's nothing I can do.  
          "Please.."  
          Something about me begging him to stop is getting him off, I think. I can feel his hips thrust involuntarily everytime I say something. He unbuttons my jeans and pushes his hand into them, his fingers rubbing and pushing into me roughly, and I know any noise I make from the pain of it will just make it worse. I bite my lips to keep from making any sound at all, but it's no use - he's tired of waiting.  
          I feel his weight lift off of me. I can feel him yanking at my pants with one hand, pulling them down, getting them off of me. Suddenly, he lets go of my wrists. Is it over? There's no way it's over. What the fuck? I open my eyes just in time to see him grab my legs and reposition both of us so that I'm lying down on the couch underneath him, his weight being supported by his left leg and right knee, his right arm holding him up from the arm of the couch, and his waist right between my legs. If I ever had a chance, this is fucking it. I have to stop him right now, or else I won't be able to.  
          "Stop stop stop, please just stop," I choke out while trying to push him away.   
          He doesn't even budge. Instead, he grabs my wrists and pins them over my head again, using his right hand to hold onto them while holding himself up.  
          "Don't act like you don't want it," he says in a low voice as he fumbles to push his jeans down a bit.  
          "But I really don't fucking w-"   
          Pain. God, I am 100% sure I'm bring ripped in half right now. His hips are resting against my thighs, but all I can feel is the outrageous seering pain he's causing me right now. My eyes involuntarily squeezed shut from the initial entry, but I can still feel him leaning over me; I can smell his scent of cologne, the shop, sawdust, and grease. His breath is coming out in gasps against my neck, and a wave of nauseau shoots through me with the realization that this is actually happening. He's actually fucking doing this.           What the fuck did I do to cause this?  
          His hips move away and press into me again, and I can feel a part of myself detaching from all of this. I don't want any of this to be happening. I don't want my boyfriend's step-dad to be raping me right now. I don't want to lose one of the only people I consider a friend anymore. Did I do something to give the impression that I wanted this? Did I seem like I would be okay with it happening? I'm 17, he's 40-something - this isn't okay. I'm not okay with this. I just want it to stop. I want him to stop and pretend it never happened. I want to pretend it never happened. I wish it never happened.  
          Grunts. Gasps. Pressure. Stubble. Skin. Cologne. Burning. Pain. Movement. Nausea. Teeth. Darkness.   
          I don't know how long it's been. I don't know what's going on. All I know is George has let me go, stood up, and pulled his pants back up. I hurt. Everything hurts. I'm afraid to move my legs because I'm afraid it'll hurt more. I'm afraid to see if there's blood. I'm even more afraid of staying like this and provoking him to do something again, so I swing my legs over and push myself up off the couch as fast as I possibly can. The pain is almost unbearable, but there's absolutely no fucking way I'm going to let him know that. I'm not going to say a word to him. After redoing my bra, I grab my pants off the ground and pull them on, wincing with every single move I make.  
          What do I do now? I don't know how to react. Do I tell him to leave? What if he refuses? I don't want to make him mad. I don't want him to get mad and hurt me. I wish this never happened.  
          I sit on the couch, pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, and put my forehead down to rest on my knees. Tears are escaping my eyes, staining my cheeks with salt, and it's fucking stupid. I refuse to cry infront of him. I refuse to cry at all. I refuse to even admit this happened. It didn't happen, as far as I'm concerned. My boyfriend's step-dad didn't just rape me. My friend didn't just rape me. I wasn't just raped.  
          I feel George walk across the room towards the bedroom door, smoke from his cigarette trailing along behind him.  
          "You okay?"  
          Oh yeah, I'm absolutely fine. There's nothing wrong with me at all right now. Nothing just happened. It's a great day to be alive. It's my birthday, remember?  
I can't look up or he'll see the tears. I can't speak or I'll choke. I manage a tiny nod, just enough for him to see it.  
          "Okay. I'm going to head out then, um.. I'll see you later? Oh, and don't try to move anymore shit around until your brother gets home - you're going to wind up killing yourself!"  
          Oh, you have no idea.


End file.
